


In a Sea of Diamonds, Two Stones Dull as Dirt

by Trubbishly



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 3rd chapter is explicit! avoid it if you want, Angst, Aw yeah bylitza real now babey!!, BE route, Byleth is probably autistic let's be honest, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex Character, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trubbishly/pseuds/Trubbishly
Summary: A series of Bylitza oneshots.A demon and a reaper, what a strange pair they would make.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I already have two other running works rn but sometimes I like writing short random stuff, and Bylitza has consumed me. When will I learn self control...
> 
> This was inspired by Death Knight's FE: Heroes dialogue. Someone get this man some help.

Byleth never was a heavy sleeper. Being a mercenary, he always had to be on his toes. His mind stayed on overdrive, and now that he had a childish entity in his brain harassing him into the late hours of the night, sleep evaded him more often than not. 

“You should really rest up. Seriously, your lectures stink when you’re sleepy!” chided Sothis from the corner of his room.

He glared at her with his dark eyes, legs crossed over the edge of his bed as he closed the book on his lap. Rising, he picked up his jacket from his desk chair and slung it over his shoulders.

“Hey! I said sleep! Where do you think you’re going?” Sothis snapped, balling her little fists.

“Outside for some fresh air,” the young professor explained dully.

The glittering phantom huffed, “Suit yourself.”

A half moon winked down on the academy grounds. The trees and buildings glowed with an ethereal aura, and Byleth found it easy to navigate in the lowlight. He wandered, merely observing his surroundings and drinking in the crisp night air. Silence was unusual at the academy. It wasn’t unwelcome, but Byleth had become rather fond of the chattery students.

Twisting around a bend, the mercenary’s senses at last caught onto a sound beyond the occasional hooting of an owl. He stopped in the dust of his path and strained his ears. The sound was human. Someone was grunting, followed by a ghostly whisper or two from the same mouth. He then heard the clank of weapon against wood. Inching forward, he eventually found himself at the closed doors of the training grounds.

“Miserable,” the ghost whispered. A thudding sound followed. “Boring. So boring. I’m so tired.”

Cautiously, the mercenary cracked the door open without a sound and peered inside. In the sandy arena stood Jeritza. He swung violently, gracelessly, at a wooden dummy with one of his thin fencing swords. It flashed silvery in the moonlight. Unsatisfied with his inflictions on the hapless dummy, he kicked it over with the harsh shove of his foot. Jeritza followed the poor wooden thing and began to beat it’s empty wooden face with his bare fists, as if dreaming for splinters to decorate his hands.

Byleth was slowly inching the door open further with each passing moment, hollow eyes wide at the scene. Jeritza’s breath heaved. His mouth drew back into a vicious snarl, his hair disheveled in its tie by his movements. Hands curling around the wooden neck, knuckles red, Jeritza tried desperately to pop the dummy’s head off into the sand. It complied with enough pressure. But the neck was severed with a clean, splinter-less pop, and miserably he cast the dummy aside.

He was on his hands and knees in the sand, head ducked down. Byleth was standing in the shadows of a column now. Jeritza dug his fingers into the thin layer of sediment. His back was wracked with hollow breaths.   
“I hate you,” he hissed towards the ground, his mouth contorted and open, “I hate you. I hate you.”

At last, Byleth stepped into the light of the rectangular area. He clamped his hands together against himself. The dark depths of his inky irises shone in the moonlight. Madly, Jeritza’s head whipped towards his presence. The deranged look on his face weakened with recognition.

“Byleth...,” he started.

Byleth’s head bobbed as if reassuring him.

“What are you doing out this late?” Jeritza grumbled, forcing himself up from his position. He brushed off his knees and wiped the angry drool from his chin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” the other professor stated matter of factly, eyes still wide as disks.

“Hm,” Jeritza hummed. “Nor could I.”

A tense silence hung between them. Byleth averted his gaze to the moon above.

“Duel with me,” Jeritza asked suddenly.

Byleth’s moon-big eyes blinked. “But I’m tired.”

“You said you couldn’t sleep,” Jeritza reminded him with his flat, deep tone.

“Okay,” the mercenary obliged simply. Even behind the mask, he could catch the flare of desperation in Jeritza’s eyes.

In the dark behind the columns, Jeritza slunk to pick up a pair of swords. They were not fencing swords, nor were they wooden training swords. The weapons in his hands were undeniably, dangerously real. Perhaps his life with divine pulse up his sleeve ruined his sense of fear, for Byleth was not afraid. He took up the sword he was offered without a word.

“Are you insane?” Sothis’ voice suddenly sparked in his brain. He did not acknowledge it, and she continued to scold.

And without a word, Jeritza got into a starting stance. Byleth followed suite, and soon, their swords were clanging together. They would meet at the middle and then jump back. The two would dance around each other, kicking up dust, before lunging back in again. It was rhythmic. Simple. Neither tried to gain the upper hand nor change their tactics. They merely fought on smoothly with no destination.

It seemed Jeritza was growing desperate to change that. His swings grew more violent, and more sloppy in turn. Byleth could block the attacks easily. But, the mercenary had no desire to put Jeritza in harm’s way. He fell into a hazy defensive and did nothing to return his forceful maneuvers. Within this sheet of haze, Jeritza had suddenly backed him against a column. Perhaps Byleth was more tired, more unobservant than he thought.

The very bright, very real blade was against Byleth’s throat. Jeritza loomed over him, sweat clinging to the skin visible beyond his mask. Byleth swallowed. He could feel the apple of his throat bob against the cool blade. Jeritza watched him with something dark in his eyes.

“You win,” Byleth said shallowly.

Jeritza grunted with acknowledgement, his eyes never wavering from their intense lock on Byleth’s throat as he lowered his blade. The weapon dropped to the sand and Byleth took a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then, to Byleth’s horror, Jeritza reached down.

He took up the sharp of Byleth’s blade in his bare hands, and raising it, brought the tip against his own sternum. Byleth could feel the tip digging into the fabric of Jeritza’s shirt. The darkness in the instructor’s eyes never left all the while.

“I want you to take this blade,” Jeritza requested hollowly, “And plunge it into my breast.”

Byleth didn’t know when he’d started trembling, but his grip on the sword was shaking now. He could feel the blade digging against the delicate skin of the opposing man’s breast, Jeritza barely needing to lean closer to have it so. The column behind Byleth meant he couldn’t back up. If Jeritza desired it, he could skewer himself on the blade right there and then.

“I would be honored to die by your hand,” Jeritza continued. The fog in his eyes was all consuming.

Byleth’s mind finally caught up amidst all of Sothis’ screaming and he dropped the sword with a clatter. Jeritza’s eyes were frenzied at this choice, trying to trace the empty expression on Byleth’s face. His palms were open now. Blood dripped down the neat, thick slices he had earned from grabbing up Byleth’s weapon. Something in the turn of Jeritza’s mouth threatened a new wave of violence. If Byleth didn’t think it was right, he would-

Jerking forward, Byleth ferociously clamped his teeth into Jeritza’s right hand before he could try anything else funny. The instructor’s droopy eyes widened at the sudden attack. Byleth had been there before. He had battled the empty haze night and day, begging for anything to draw him out of the nothingness he felt. It didn’t always work, especially not before he was surrounded by friends. But for Jeritza, he was going to make it happen. He was going to drag him out kicking and screaming if he had too. However, maybe straight up biting him wasn’t the best way to do that.

Hunched like some sort of wild animal, Byleth looked up at Jeritza with hopeful eyes, teeth still embedded into his skin. He tasted like sand and salt and metal. What message his maneuver got across, Byleth wasn’t sure. But it did something. Jertiza’s balled his fist into Byleth’s dark, messy hair and yanked him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jeritza’s low voice was trembling, but there was a tinge of amusement rising from the back of his throat.

Byleth finally released his steel trap grip. Jeritza glared down at him and did not let go of his hair. Gently, Byleth took the man’s free hand and turned it over in the silvery moonlight. His bite was definitely going to leave a mark, but the slice in Jeritza’s palm was far more deserving of attention. Fingers poked the edge of the gash. Growling, Jeritza yanked Byleth’s head again at this.

“Those are my fault. Don’t even bother,” he criticized unhappily.

When Byleth finally spoke again, it felt as if he hadn’t used his voice in a decade, “Does it sting?”

“Only a bit,” he sighed, “my crest will fix it soon enough.”

Surely enough, the seams of the cut began to glow faintly. Puss rose quickly to the surface and Byleth watched in wonder as the wound started patching itself up. However, the glow soon stopped and Jeritza was left with a nasty, half-healed mess.

“Ew,” Byleth remarked quietly, trying to resist the urge to poke it.

Jeritza tugged Byleth’s head once again, as if trying to anchor himself down by the strands of his bluish hair. Byleth was forced to have a dizzying view of the stars and moon above. Unsteadily, the taller man pressed the professor against the pillar. It took Byleth a moment to realize this was a crushing hug, not Jeritza’s attempt to smother himself to death in the nook of his shoulder.

Hesitantly, Byleth raised his hands and clung to Jeritza’s jacket in an awkward attempt at returning the gesture. Jeritza only squeezed harder. For a moment, Byleth feared his for his ribs beneath the pressure. Then, Jeritiza’s grasp left his hair and his fingers scrabbled to get hold of the cloth on his back. He bunched the jacket in his injured hands and pressed his sweaty face against the skin on Byleth’s neck. 

“How are you so warm?” Jeritza rasped.

“The Crest of Flames,” Byleth said as if it was the simplest thing in the world. He could feel the heavy, maddened heart of the instructor against him. Jealousy was a rare thing for Byleth, as most feelings were, but in that moment he felt it achingly. 

He found it was his turn to clutch and not let go. The burdened sound of humanity thundered so close he could feel it in his bones. It echoed in the quiet hollow of his chest, his ribs yearning for a similar song of their own. If only it didn’t feel so alien.

He buried his face into the silky hair on Jeritza’s tucked head and stayed there for a good, long while.


	2. Halos and Helmets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth pushes himself too hard, but someone unexpected is there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this mostly before the Jeritza DLC came out, but I forced the second part into existence because the DLC motivated me LOL. Bylitza real!! So...it may be a bit inconsistent bc of DLC reveals. Sorry 'bout that.

Byleth’s vision was getting hazy. That last mistake had been the final straw. When he shattered reality for what he swore was the twentieth time that day, his head split with it, the cold, fuzzy purple of the Inbetween stinging his eyes like molten tears. Everything was swimming, but he had to get a grip.  _ He had too.  _ The Miasma that had swallowed Caspar was too much. Byleth heard the undeniable and bloodcurdling sound of a final scream. No one was going to stay dead under his command. He swore it.

He rolled back time just enough, and feeling his vision and limbs getting lighter, the Professor screamed a command to retreat. And with that, his conscious winked out.

Forgettable dreams, perhaps visions, flickered like fireflies in his mind’s eye. In and out, he faded. There were familiar voices. Strong arms hoisted him up. Steady, gentle movement and the sound of clip-clopping soothed him back to sleep time and time again . He felt like a rock at a lake’s bottom, looking up at the light dancing on the surface.

“Let me take care of him,” spoke the gravel and sand he rested on.

“Be careful,” said the distant moonlight.

It was quiet and cold at the bottom then, the moon blocked by a cloud skirting above. But somehow, Byleth felt safe. The dark waters sang a lullaby to him.

—-

Death Knight rode slowly into a village. Only a thin crescent moon and the streetlights guided him and his dark steed along. The hoof beats were loud against the cobbles of the lonely street. Anyone so unfortunate to catch a glimpse of this sight would be readily taken aback. A mounted reaper cradled an angel in his arms, awashed in a pale halo of falling snow.

Jeritza could not take his shadowed eyes from the precious figure he held as he passed under the lamplights. The sleeping man’s face was still, wisps of downy mint hair catching snowflakes in their wake. Byleth glowed in the light. The cold winter air tickled his cheeks and nose pink. Near invisible curls of mist licked up from his slowed breathing. His eyelashes twinkled with the crystals of snow melt.

The sight was so unbelievably new to Jeritza. Never had he witnessed the Ashen Demon in such delicate vulnerability as this. He did not think Byleth even possible of such pristine softness. He held the professor’s resting body more daintily than he believed himself capable of. It was like holding the world’s most fragile work of glass, and he feared one wrong move in his armored grasp would cause Byleth to shatter into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.

If one of the few unfortunate witnesses were to strain their ears, through the soft snow fall they would hear a gravelly song. So deep and so echoey it was, that to all the unknowing it was perhaps a demonic spell. Shutters were quietly and tightly shut. The rumbling hum was only for the ears of the air now, though Jeritza hardly realized it was himself doing it as it lifted up and up into the cold. Lyrics rattled from his helmet as echoes of something that once was, something he couldn’t quite place:

“O’ the woods and green leaves shine like Rafail,

The silver vines twine with the words I tell,

O’ I miss thee, I miss thee, my love

As the summer falls to winter above,

I err to think my heartbeat shall quell, 

Pray that spring comes as fast as a dove,

As I tell

O’ my love

O’ my love.”

The lyrics were given to him, he knew, and so without thinking, he gave them away too. It was a lullaby of sorts. This he was sure of. Dredged up by the delicate, sleeping features of the professor’s face, the words churned out unbidden and sentimental. They often did that, those lyrics. Worming their way from the corners of his head out of his mouth in rare, vulnerable moments. Byleth was resting and vulnerable in his dark, violent arms, and so Jeritza sang them for him.

In his haze, Byleth heard the lyrics unclearly. If a distant thunderstorm could sing, this was the way it would sound, he supposed. Something cold and strong and broad held him in the depths. Dark. Obsidian perhaps, as his vision blurred and faded with the passing clouds. Soon, the feeling was clearer. Sharp claws held his arms steady. Twin red moons watched from above. Byleth felt himself blinking and blinking, suddenly tearing up through the surface and into the freezing night.

“You wake,” the hollow voice rumbled from its obsidian cage. 

Byleth shifted in the dark knight’s arms, feeling fuzzy and flushed from the winter air, blinking sharp snowflakes from his watery eyes. A puff of warm air exhaled from his mouth and obscured the demonic mask looking down at him. 

Jeritza pulled his lose grip on the reigns awkwardly. It took a moment, but the horse faltered to a stop, swishing the flakes from it’s tail. They were beneath a bright lamp. Byleth looked up at him still, face just as fragile and calm as it had been in sleep. Jeritza didn’t think it was possible. In the hollow of the professor’s eyes, there was always something dark brewing. Some secret, wretched knowledge wedged within. It lurked in the small downward twists of his mouth or in the furrow of his brow. Even in the excitement and happiness that Jeritza had dragged from the professor on occasion, the darkness was merely crouching, ready to spring back like hungry cat. Now, in his arms, the darkness melted away. Byleth shone in the streetlight. For a brief, forgetful moment, the secret misery did not return to his eyes.

“Are you well?” the Death Knight asked.

And the professor blinked. Pulling his arms to his chest and weakly sitting up, the painful darkness found its way back. His eyes became heavily lidded. Byleth merely shrugged.

“Let us go somewhere warm,” he suggested from his armor prison. “It is not safe in the cold.”

They rode to an inn. Jeritza slid from the horse first, a thin layer of snow crunching beneath his metal boots. Byleth put his gloved hand into the jagged claws of the cavalier, and he too met the snow with his boots. The two soldiers found themselves before the tavern door. Clouds of breath blew from the dark jaws of Jeritza’s mask, dragon-like, but he didn’t bother removing it as he ducked beneath the doorframe after Byleth.

The pitiable tavern-keep let out a muffled squeak behind his counter. He looked at the two beings who had stepped (or ducked) through his door, pondering whether this was some sort of omen.

“I have a horse,” the Death Knight droned.

“Y-yes,” the man nodded, suddenly feeling an awful chill up his spine, “I’ll see to it.”

A set of keys was tossed into Byleth’s hands as the man scurried away to deal with the dark knight’s horse. In his frantic hurry, he forgot to ask for pay, but Byleth dug up a few good coins from his endless pockets and left them on the desk in his absence.

Ascending the stairs tasked Byleth’s addled brain. He secured his grip around the decorative spikes of the knight’s vambrace as fireflies tickled his vision. The Death Knight did not heed his presence and pressed on upwards, old stairs creaking beneath his heavy soles. Byleth read the faded tag of the keys and found their room. It was a small but homey space. There was a cot on a frame and an extra cot propped against the wall, straw sticking out at the seams. A plain rug rested before a humble fireplace. Fresh logs waited amongst the charred bricks.

Jeritza helped the wobbly mercenary to the bed. Gratefully, Byleth sank beneath the stiff sheets, his body suddenly feeling much like a rock again. The knight parted from his side and hunched in front of the fireplace, calling a small flicker of fire to his jagged finger. The light happily set the logs ablaze. Soon, the room filled with the scent of burning pine. The Death Knight sat hunched on a stool too small for his hulking figure, observing the flames. He had still to remove his helmet. Watching the warm light outline the menacing curves and horns of the reaper’s armor, Byleth felt the unusual sight burn into his vision. He willingly let it. The filmy purple of the Inbetween still seared, unreal, in the back of his irises. Byleth wanted his visions of things that would not come to pass to fade, and be replaced by the strange warmness he now felt in the marrow of his ribs. It was almost funny, in an oddly sad way, how the reaper sat there as if waiting for something. Byleth was sure he could hear shallow breathing rattling like a lost marble in his helmet.

Finally, after a long moment’s silence filled only by the crackle of logs, Jeritza removed his helmet and shook his head. His frayed blond hair was silver in the firelight, and he turned to look at Byleth with poorly veiled worry blanketing his face.

“Are you alright?” he rumbled, deep voice cracking in sync with the blazing pine wood. 

Byleth looked at him with his dark, glassy fish eyes and nodded. It was true that he was sore all over, painfully tired, and dizzy as a drunkard, but he thanked Sothis for always managing to keep him in one piece. He hoped she could still hear him. He hoped the hum of his blood was her way of saying, “You’re welcome.”

“I am...relieved,” Jeritza muttered as he slowly began to remove the massive pauldrons from his weary shoulders. He hung his head and let the sore muscles of his neck thrum, let his loose hair obscure the calculated, questioning expression on his face. 

“Are  _ you _ alright?” Byleth echoed back, hands folded in the sheets at his lap. The stare he gave meant this question could not be avoided.

Putting his pauldrons on the floor, Jeritza rotated his arm and tested his shoulder. “I think I am alright,” he consented, “Though, I can never be too sure.”

Byleth hummed, “Thank you for helping me.”

Jeritza let his armored hands fall to his lap. He grunted reluctantly, head sinking further, “I fear I cannot accept your thanks.”

Byleth cocked his head, coin-round eyes opening wider still, “But, why not? You carried me when I could not walk.”

From there, Byleth could see Jeritza’s jaw grow taught, his mouth stretching and drawing out the deep wrinkles of a painful youth on his face. There was something he wasn’t saying. Something that sat just on the tip of his tongue.

“It wasn’t me. At least, not really,” Jeritza hesitated. He hated the genuine, gentle way Byleth asked his questions. “There is someone else you have to thank.”

The mercenary’s face was empty for a moment. And then, the man knowingly looked at the helmet resting on the rug. “Death Knight,” Byleth acknowledged quietly, in a way so sad and thoughtful it made Jeritza’s eyes foolishly burn.

“Yes,” Jeritza said, trying to keep that unwarranted disdain in his throat at bay, “He will always come back. Do not doubt it. You can thank him later.”

Nodding, Byleth accepted the answer and sank against his pillow peacefully. He listened to the sound of Jeritza taking apart his armor until something new arrived at the door with a clank. Byleth sat up weakly, but Jeritza shuffled to the door in his stead. There was a tray of soup, bread, and water waiting outside. Every visitor received these things, as was tradition at the inn. But to the innkeeper, this instance was nothing more than an offering to appease whatever demons he had just let take shelter under his roof.

The soup was cold, and so Jeritza held the already charred bowls by the fire. Byleth slowly nibbled the hard bread as he waited, carelessly letting the crumbs sprinkle his sheets. When the shapely wooden bowls began to grow blacker still, Jeritza pulled away and returned to Byleth’s side. Byleth took his bowl and looked at the ripples in the broth unhappily. His hands were shaking like mad, the spoon wobbling inside the soup. 

“You are an unequivocal mess,” Jeritza chided half-heartedly. 

He put his own bowl down and cupped his black, unremoved gauntlet beneath Byleth’s bowl, his other clawed hand grazing the back of the mercenary’s neck to keep him up. Byleth’s unsteady hands felt warm against the charred wood and the armored grasp just free from above the fire. Slowly, Jeritza led the bowl up to Byleth’s chapped lips, gently guiding the shaking hands to tip the warm liquid into a waiting mouth. Byleth drank it slowly, purposefully bit- by-bit. Even in the clawed gauntlets of the Death Knight, Jeritza’s hands were gentle and willing. He followed every twitch and signal that Byleth gave, letting him stop to swallow or breathe. Jeritza watched him with a soft, simple contentment. His own soup was lukewarm by the time he was free to drink it. But, his chest was throbbing with heat and he found he could not complain.

Byleth’s haze was finally settling. The grime of battle and melted snow started affecting him, and he began to strip off his dirtied white and gold outfit. Jeritza raised his eyebrows as he chewed his bread. For a dreadful moment, he could not take his eyes away from the smaller man’s figure as he untied his sash and pulled his shirt open at the top. In the orange fire light, Jeritza caught sight of the beginnings of a massive scar peeking above the fabric. He fumbled and distracted himself by at last removing his gauntlets.

It mattered not. The mercenary stripped himself down to his off-white underbritches, innocently exposing the gaping scar over his chest for Jeritza to see in its full, mauled glory. It was an old mark, he could tell, baring the wear-and-tear of a scar that endured many a growth spurt. So deep and fibrous it was, that Jeritza couldn’t help but think it reached all the way to the man’s heart.

“That scar,” Jeritza breathed from his clumsily sitting place.

Byleth turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, as if he was questioning Jeritza’s intelligence. “What of it?” he remarked with a yawn.

“Where, may I ask, did you receive such a thing?”

Byleth’s shrug was unconvincing. “I am not quite sure. I’ve had it since I was born,” he explained distantly. “It’s...It has made me what I am.”

“I suppose, in a way we are all our scars,” Jeritza narrowed his eyes at the weary mercenary, “but only if we can remember what made them.”

“That  _ is _ true,” Byleth sighed, sinking back down onto the cot. “I do not remember it, per say, but I know what it has done. Why it’s there.”

“Hmph. And you do not like what it means, I assume?” Jeritza got up to stretch, “The way we hate what we cannot control is grimly amusing.”

There was a silence. Byleth looked up at the cavalier with his vast, minty eyes, waiting and wanting for something.

And then he spoke, “Do you hate the Death Knight, Jeritza?”

Jeritza blinked, taken aback by the bluntness that he swore he’d gotten used to by now. Then, he looked away shamefully, speaking in a whisper rivaled by the flames in the fireplace, “Hate is a strong word. But sometimes, I do hate him. Though, I may need him...disdain is still in my heart.”

Byleth’s eyes drifted somewhere else thoughtfully. Surely, he said, “Well, I do not hate him.”

This made Jeritza scoff. It made his eyes sting again, and his throat clenched. He frowned and fought the hot desire to cover his face in humiliated agony. “But, you shouldn’t,” he argued weakly, “He only exists to harm others. He will harm you too, if you let him.”

“No,” Byleth shook his head, never looking up at the troubled man, “I like him. He doesn’t hurt me.”

Jeritza had to bury his face in his hands to stifle a sob. What was this supposed the be? He felt like he was gagging. What was he supposed to feel when Byleth said such inane, unprompted things? 

“He is ruthless, yes. But then, why is he able to hold back?” Byleth continued, choking Jeritza with just his words. “He may kill, but I think he exists, perhaps, to protect. Am I correct?”

His body broiled with something he couldn’t name. It could’ve been rage, but Jeritza knew that was barely the start of it. He felt so pent up suddenly, swallowing all those explosive words but unable to hold onto them. Volcanic tears readied in the corners of his eyes. He had to get these feelings out of himself before he erupted.

Jeritza thrummed like an oncoming storm, towering above the sitting man, “If that is what you think...then whatever  _ this _ is...this thing that you hide from me,” he placed a calloused hand over the brutal scar, “I know that I already like it. Do not make me beg the truth out of you. Know that I can never despise you, if you cannot despise me.”

For the first time in a long time indeed, the dark, swirling hollow of Byleth’s eyes grew full and bright. He put a tentative hand against Jeritza’s, pressing the knight’s fingers into the old gash. “Do you feel it? The nothingness?” Byleth asked. Frankly, he would be surprised if Jeritza hadn’t already noticed it before.

“So, it is true,” Jeritza gawked with delicate awe. He splayed his hand open on the unbearably warm skin of Byleth’s ruined breast. “You have no heartbeat. I remember, when you were close to me…My, you are such a strange creature. And so warm.”

Byleth hung his head now. The mercenary’s fingers trembled, this time from something far different than exhaustion, as he moved to clutch Jeritza’s hand. “Tell me, is it too strange?”

“Perhaps,” Jeritza hummed, closing his eyes. He placed his free palm over Byleth’s knuckles and smiled, “but who am I to say, being but a strange creature myself?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I was a bit offended by how much Jeritza dislikes Death Knight in his convos, bc I've been using good ol' DK so much in Heroes that he's grown on me hehe. Very bold of Jeritza to assume I think DK is as bad as he says he is when all he does within the story is knock some people out, stand there and do nothing, and point out some shiny nukes in the distance.
> 
> I write a lot of mentally ill/disabled characters because they're easier to me as an autistic + mentally ill person. However, I know next to nothing about Dissociative Personality Disorder and I'm so sorry if I can't do him justice. Feel free to critique me! 
> 
> @Jelly_Flavored on twitter


	3. Stress and Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter is rated EXPLICIT]
> 
> Post-A support. Jeritza wonders about feelings. Byleth shows him some expected and unexpected things. Someone pays a visit...

“To think, I am the one who pesters you now, when you used to be but a nuisance to me,” mused Jeritza’s deep, recognizable voice from the open doorway.

The professor turned his head slowly to meet the purple gaze watching him, letting his eyes flick to the blue skies above after acknowledging Jeritza’s presence. He was leaning against the stone banister that rimmed the empty balcony. The small fountain in the center of the space proved a peaceful background noise as he watched the horizon change colors.

“That may be the case,” Byleth hummed as a formation of birds crossed overhead.

When he said no more, Jeritza approached him across the cobbled floor, the black heels of his shoes clacking with each stride until he reached an appropriate distance. 

“My behavior must perturb you,” Jeritza admitted solemnly.

Byleth dropped his gaze to the lily pads floating in the fountain and shook his head. “It should bother me more, no doubt,” he explained dryly, “but it does not.”

“I suppose that should please me,” the cavalier folded his arms and sighed, “but for some reason, it does not. Why can I never be satisfied?”

“Because you don’t know what you want,” Byleth said to his own reflection.

Jeritza unfolded his arms and looked into the fountain too, a new reflection joining Byleth's pondering. “I thought I had made what I wanted pointedly clear,” Jeritza droned, “to die, to bleed, to pay for my misgivings. It would be wretchedly wonderful to feel so much all at once.”

The mercenary crouched down, poking a leafy disk with his finger. It bobbed and obscured the reflections of the two men in the wake of its dance. “I think you are confused,” he decided.

“Ha. Confused?” Jeritza huffed unhappily, “I have never been so sure about something in my life. I have prolonged the peace I crave just so I can have it by your hand. As soon as I saw what you could do, I decided my blood was yours and yours alone. Even the Death Knight agrees.”

Byleth looked at the shiny buckle on Jeritza’s shoe, “But, what of now? If you must wait until the end of the war, and yet you still seek me out, what does that mean?”

He could hear the standing man take a sharp breath. Jeritza blinked his lavender eyes, and then closed them tight, taken aback by such words. Such infuriating, introspective, typically Byleth-sounding words. 

“I...I am afraid I am not sure,” Jeritza conceded through a frown. “I could not tell you if I tried. Perhaps, your presence is a reminder…”

Byleth pushed off with his knees and stood as Jeritza remained thoughtful. The mercenary leaned back against low wall to observe the rosy sky. “Regardless, I’ll have you know I do not mind your presence. It has grown on me, like a flower on a stone.”

Jeritza opened his eyes to look at the man, something wrought in his eyes, “But, flowers do not grow on stones.”

“Hmm?” Byleth mumbled, letting an evening breeze comb through his hair, “Only certain flowers can withstand the face of a stone.”

Jeritza stared at him, letting that strange wisdom seep into his bones. Byleth’s head was tilted back, his throat bared for Jeritza to observe. His soft, seafoam hair ruffled against a dying, peach colored sky. There was something that kept him coming back, time and time again. Jeritza knew why and yet he did not know why, didn’t  _ want _ to know why. Because if he did, when he did, he knew the truth would be his undoing. Still, he inched closer to the tipping point. For wanting, wanting,  _ wanting _ was all someone so hollow ever did.

“ _ Byleth _ .”

The professor lifted his head up. Jeritza was very close now, looking down at him with soft, tired eyes.

“Do  _ you _ know what I want, truly?” he questioned quietly, “you seem to know so many things.”

A silence ran around them before Byleth could bring himself to speak.

“About this world, about the ways of war, about what all of you have been through. Yes.” The ever present darkness in Byleth’s eyes grew deeper, “But even then, I cannot read your mind. I can barely read people’s faces. I’m sorry.”

Jeritza couldn’t look at those dark, miserable eyes. They were too hollow and too full all at once, conflicting and paradoxical in their existence, and it felt accusatory when they pointed at him. He fell to his knees and buried his face into Byleth’s shirt.

“What is this? What  _ is  _ this?” Jeritza asked into fabric bunched against Byleth’s warming belly. “Why do I always feel these things at your mercy?”

The mercenary only laced a hand behind the tie in Jeritza’s hair and watched the top of his head with emptiness.

“I said it once and I’ll say it again,” Jeritza looked up desperately. “What I need is you. Not for death...not  _ only _ for death, but also for life. And for everything. But how...what does it mean? What do I do when all I want is for you to rip me limb from limb?”

He sighed longingly at the thought and buried his face into the fabric again. Byleth pulled him back away by his ponytail.

“You want in excess,” Byleth frowned slightly, tightening his grip in Jeritza’s hair. “You have to think smaller.”

“What?” Jeritza wondered through his own haplessness as Byleth yanked his hair. “What does that mea-”

Byleth crashed down upon him, mouth meeting gaping mouth. Jeritza’s hands scrambled for purchase on Byleth’s back as his head was pulled further by his ashy golden hair. He gasped musical gibberish through the gnashing of teeth and the hovering presence of Byleth’s tongue. Jeritza reached out his own tongue achingly to meet it, and when he finally did, Byleth drew back for breath.

“Good enough for you?” Byleth asked seriously.

“Almost enough,” Jeritza breathed, nearly shaking with surprise, “but, by all means, I could want for more.”

They connected again, more delicately than before, Byleth lapping him up until he had all but melted to the cool cobblestone, recieving a good view of the sky above him. Eventually, Byleth abandoned Jeritza’s lips to test his neck, nipping each inch as he went.

“Byleth, _ Byleth _ ,” Jeritza sung with euphoria. The sky was getting dark and it would soon grow cold. But he couldn’t care less, not against the heat in his stomach and the blood of Flames that made Byleth nearly glow with warmth. “Let me see you.”

The darkness was swirling in his eyes, but it was not as deep as before. This was a small comfort. Byleth licked his lips and got to work unbuttoning the cavalier’s shirt. The adrenaline buzzed in Jeritza’s forehead and made his ears ring and hum. It was like the din of battle, like the rush he got from fighting, and he wallowed in it as Byleth’s teeth grazed his now bare sternum.

“Take me,” Jeritza requested, “Do what you will.”

Byleth’s warm, calloused hands worked down his sides, fingertips brushing further rib by rib. A deep purr wormed from Jeritza’s throat at the rare, precious feeling of touch. Fingers traced the dip between each rib, thumbs rubbing circles in his soft skin. Jeritza could imagine those worn hands reaching deeper, slicing through those little spaces into the hollow of his chest and stroking the exposed, bloody ribs lovingly before cleaving them back. Wrenching open his cage and tearing out his still beating heart wouldn’t be much different than what he was doing to him now, Jeritza thought. Byleth had always had the knight’s heart in the palm of his hands. He was malleable just by being in his presence. 

Gripping his waist, Byleth mouthed the cavalier’s strong, carved abdomen with velvety lips. Jeritza sighed into the night air. His pants were tight around his groin, and when he felt Byleth’s fingers finally hook beneath the waistband, he felt a rush in his blood. But then, the mercenary made no next move.

“Are you alright?” Jeritza lifted his head a bit and frowned.

Byleth was glassy eyed and blank, staring at Jeritza’s chest, or perhaps through it,  _ into _ it. His fingers left the waistband nervously. “It’s just...I don’t think you know what I am,” Byleth grimaced weakly, “Perhaps you won’t be satisfied.”

Jeritza huffed air out of his nose, “I don’t think you understand what I am, either. And perhaps you never will, but that matters not. I told you already. No matter what, our fates are intertwined.”

Byleth’s lips trembled, an incomprehensible look spreading across his face. Slowly, he reached down and started to pull away his own pair of pants. Jeritza raised his eyebrows at this change of pace, and shyly, he found himself looking away. Byleth hung his head. Tentatively, he parted the unbuttoned flaps to reveal what was beneath.

Jeritza’s eyes flicked back to the bareness framed within the open fabric. He cocked his head and sat up on his elbows. It wasn’t what he expected, and yet, Byleth was  _ always _ unexpected. He felt almost a fool for thinking otherwise. No anatomy textbook had been knowledgeable enough to paint such a picture.

Byleth felt hands ruffle through his minty crown. Jeritza whispered into his ear, “Fear not, you were always one of a kind. A strange creature through and through. No one should have it any other way.”

Jeritza laughed a low rumble as the mercenary tackled him back to the ground with a whimper of gratitude. He traced his spine through his black shirt and Byleth at last plucked the courage to free Jeritza as well. His length was already stiff and wet and eager. Jeritza covered his eyes timidly while Byleth wondered which way to go about it. He played with the cavalier’s handsomely toned thighs while he thought.

Eventually, he made his decision before the two of them grew too cold out on the balcony. Frogs and crickets sang loudly below. Clouds rolled over a thin moon. Byleth slipped his pants to his knees. He pried himself open with one hand, drooling against the rhythmic slamming of a heart in Jeritza’s chest, his free hand clutched in Jeritza’s fingers. At last, he sat himself down and Jeritza let out a gasp as he sunk deep into the man above him.

His groans fused simply with the cries of nighttime nature as he felt Byleth tight and hot around him. Byleth was as quiet as ever, only relishing in the occasional sigh, despite the fierce pumping and digging of his nails against Jeritza’s body. Jeritza bucked up against him, ever wanting, ever imaginative, hoping Byleth would knock him senseless and keep his mind silent for a while once this violent dance was done. But it was done all too soon. Jeritza leaked and sloshed, and at such vivid sounds, spilled out willingly with a moan too sweet even for his own lips. Byleth wrapped his arms around the larger, shivering figure and helped him pull loose. He lay his partner down on the cold stone to cool off from his boiling point.

“Will that stop your talk of being slayed for a while?” Byleth asked breathlessly.

“Huhh,” was all Jeritza could manage. His mind and body had hungrily greeted and swallowed the thrill, but now that it was gone with nothing left but sticky soreness, he trembled. A hot malaise fogged his mind.

Byleth looked down at him, the swirling in his eyes satiated into milder, clearer weather. The smile he held briefly on his face was now gone. That cold and calculating expression took over his face. It was empty, thoughtless, but Jeritza couldn’t help but think of his face as he wielded the Creator. Jeritza’s body felt so fragile he could hardly move. He was warm and soft like freshly floured dough, delicate and able to be pulled apart and shaped. Byleth was ruthless and ethereal with that sword. He was strong, still crouching above him now, hardly shivering in the night cold. He could tear Jeritza apart so easily and simply now that he had got him at his weakest...

Suddenly, there was a hand harshly twisting Byleth’s wrist. He widened his sea colored eyes and met Jeritza’s face. It was morphed, frightened, pupils dilated and teeth bared white like the moon.

“You!  _ You _ ,” he growled. “Always seeking the upper hand, my pleasure?”

“ _ Death Knight _ ,” Byleth breathed out worriedly at the realization of what had transpired beneath him.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten me,” the Death Knight said with a smile that was more of a grimace. His eyes seemed crimson in the low light. His silvery-golden hair frayed about him, as elegant an unearthly as a spider’s web. “Do you realize our deadly duel is between you and I alone? Or do you crave the blood of others more than I thought?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Byleth began, allowing the harsh grip on his wrist to stay.

“Maybe not me, but Jeritza,” the Death Knight slapped his hand away then, “is a far easier target. Disappointing. I thought you were willing to play the game with  _ me _ .”

Byleth rubbed his wrist and brought it to his chest, forehead knotted in confusion and thought.

The Death Knight tried to forcefully push himself up on his palms. He brought his legs in from a sprawling position, but he flinched and snarled at the soreness of his own exposed body. 

“How does he expect me to defend him when he leaves me in such a miserable state?” he spat, “damn him. And damn  _ you _ .” He started laughing darkly, “you like to make my promise to the emperor as hard as possible, do you not?”

The heat of friction was wearing off now, and the cold let the pieces fall quickly into place. Byleth fastened his pants and scrambled back to give the startled man room. He kept laughing his brutal laugh.

“Yes. Run, run, my precious rival,” the Death Knight taunted boldly. The breeze tickled the spidery strands of his hair and made him draw his arms up to cradle his strangely naked figure. Only once had he been out recently without armor, and even then he’d had clothes to protect him. It had been near Mercedes, anyway, and even he knew she’d never hurt him. “This night has gotten off to a disappointing start. Not so strong without your sword, are you?”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Byleth insisted flatly, “nor would I hurt Jeritza.”

The Death Knight grumbled something incomprehensible. Then, propping himself on his knees, he crawled towards the rattled mercenary. Byleth steeled himself as the man got in close and blocked his field of vision with those radiant, reddish eyes.

“Disappointing you may be,” the naked man conceded, “but you are never boring, my pleasure. Always so full of surprises.”

Byleth only stared. The Death Knight sat down on his haunches, almost cat like in nature, as his troubled face twisted with wrought confusion. “Your intentions...I may never know what they are,” he struggled through his words, “but, perhaps... Jeritza will. Urgh. Why is it…? It’s not fair. That I can only see you when…”

“Don’t worry, Death Knight,” Byleth shook his head and gave the torn man the best smile he could manage.

“Do not worry? Hah,” he said with trembling lips, his head wracked with pain.

Byleth waited. In the cold of early night, Jeritza slowly looked up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes. The professor drew the tall cavalier into his warm arms and held him tightly.

“I’m going to make you some tea and start you a hot bath,” Byleth promised, sorrow choking his voice.

Jeritza agreed on one condition as he reached for his clothes, “Only if it’s fruit tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay so maybe this could be MORE explicit but...I'm new to this. Am shy. Of course I had to make this angsty. It's nigh impossible for me to make non-angsty Bylitza fics. There's just so much introspection to be done. Also, I thought Death Knight being jealous would be funny but now I've made myself sad. Oh yeah, I headcanon Byleth here to be intersex.
> 
> Jeritza, snapping out of it: I want appley juice


End file.
